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“What I,” said the cheerful young lady who was attending to her, “like about him is that he understands women so well.”

“What I like about him,” said Ann, “is that he doesn’t pretend to.”

“There’s something in that,” agreed the cheerful young lady. “They say he’s here in New York.”

Ann looked up.

“So I’ve been told,” said the cheerful young lady.

“I wonder what he’s like?” said Ann.

“He wrote for a long time under another name,” volunteered the cheerful young lady. “He’s quite an elderly man.”

It irritated Matthew. He spoke without thinking.

“No, he isn’t,” he said. “He’s quite young.”

The ladies turned and looked at him.

“You know him?” queried Ann. She was most astonished, and appeared disbelieving. That irritated him further.

“If you care about it,” he said. “I will introduce you to him.”

Ann made no answer. He bought a copy of the book for himself, and they went out together. They turned towards the park.

Ann seemed thoughtful. “What is he doing here in New York?” she wondered.

“Looking for a lady named Sylvia,” answered Matthew.

He thought the time was come to break it to her that he was a great and famous man. Then perhaps she would be sorry she had said what she had said in the cab. Seeing he had made up his mind that his relationship to her in the future would be that of an affectionate brother, there would be no harm in also letting her know about Sylvia. That also might be good for her.

They walked two blocks before Ann spoke. Matthew, anticipating a pleasurable conversation, felt no desire to hasten matters.

“How intimate are you with him?” she demanded. “I don’t think he would have said that to a mere acquaintance.”

“I’m not a mere acquaintance,” said Matthew. “I’ve known him a long time.”

“You never told me,” complained Ann.

“Didn’t know it would interest you,” replied Matthew.

He waited for further questions, but they did not come. At Thirty- fourth Street he saved her from being run over and killed, and again at Forty-second Street. Just inside the park she stopped abruptly and held out her hand.

“Tell him,” she replied, “that if he is really serious about finding Sylvia, I may–I don’t say I can–but I may be able to help him.”

He did not take her hand, but stood stock still in the middle of the path and stared at her.

“You!” he said. “You know her?”

She was prepared for his surprise. She was also prepared–not with a lie, that implies evil intention. Her only object was to have a talk with the gentleman and see what he was like before deciding on her future proceedings–let us say, with a plausible story.

“We crossed on the same boat,” she said. “We found there was a good deal in common between us. She–she told me things.” When you came to think it out it was almost the truth.

“What is she like?” demanded Matthew.

“Oh, just–well, not exactly–” It was an awkward question. There came to her relief the reflection that there was really no need for her to answer it.

“What’s it got to do with you?” she said.

“I am Aston Rowant,” said Matthew.

The Central Park, together with the universe in general, fell away and disappeared. Somewhere out of chaos was sounding a plaintive voice: “What is she like? Can’t you tell me? Is she young or old?”

It seemed to have been going on for ages. She made one supreme gigantic effort, causing the Central Park to reappear, dimly, faintly, but it was there again. She was sitting on a seat. Matthew–Aston Rowant, whatever it was–was seated beside her.

“You’ve seen her? What is she like?”

“I can’t tell you.”

He was evidently very cross with her. It seemed so unkind of him.

“Why can’t you tell me–or, why won’t you tell me? Do you mean she’s too awful for words?”